ART, MUSIC, AND AMBITION: A NEW YORK ARTIST’S TALE / PART 1
Wednesday morning, December 4th, 2024, a masked assassin shot a multimillionaire executive on Manhattan’s Sixth Avenue, then vanished into thin air. Wait a minute, I know this street—my gym is at Rockefeller Center, just a few blocks away. I woke up to that news asking myself: Is this Gotham?
Sadly, yes. Gotham City is New York—a wild, crazy place. Like every big city, it's got heroes, friends, foes, and...monsters.
The night before, I’d just finished watching The Penguin on HBO—a brilliant show. One of his lines stuck with me: "What do I know? I’m a hustler." That's what the city does to you.
Man, nobody controls Gotham. You step into this place and are along for the ride. You think you’re in charge, but the truth is, you’re at the mercy of its rhythm—like the beat of a subway car at night, pushing you, going under, along its timeline.
Where’s the love in this city? You might ask.
Well, you can find it, if you dig in enough. No doubt.
Here’s a slice of life from the heart of New York—from my musically artistic, jaded perspective.
Gotham is New York
Back At One
The metal railings clang under my feet as I push the cart forward, the wheels rattling on the surface. My gear, paintings, the remnants of my lost studio—all stashed away.
Back at the front desk, a woman was going crazy, shouting, "Oh hell no! They stole my stuff! How is that possible? I will sue you!"
I stood behind her, staring at my keys, anxious. The thought of losing everything was crushing. Did I make a mistake, should I give up and escape? But where would I go? Paris isn’t exactly the city next door.
Before I even got to New York, AL, my ex-agent and Jersey guy had presented one of my Marvin Gaye prints to a potential collector.
"LT, remember that guy? The lawyer!" he asked.
"Yeah, what's up with him? He bought something?" I wondered.
"This son of a b%^^& stole the piece!"
"What do you mean he "stole" it?"
"Yeah, he took it as collateral for another business we had that went south... it's crazy!"
He sent me the pictures—my piece in that man's garage, next to his Lamborghini and some other exotic car. I had to laugh; at least my art was good enough to be worth stealing.
Once I landed in New York, I called the lawyer to get my piece back. He played dumb, acting clueless about the whole thing. I let it go—some battles aren't worth fighting.
My mind snapped back to reality—in my storage unit, waiting for the elevator. I glanced through the metal grates on the floor.
Below me, a lady was chilling in her cardboard box, watching Netflix on her phone, laughing. The sight stunned me—some people are living in their storage box!
Sirens: It Was All Good Just X Weeks Ago
Two months prior. I was enjoying my Nutella and strawberries crepe near West 4th Street—I am a creature of habit—a couple of blocks down on MacDougal Street when my phone buzzed.
It was a text from my studio landlord: "Lionel, we need to talk."
The rent was paid, so I was confused. I licked my fingers, grabbed some napkins, and called him back on my way to Soho.
"I got bad news, man," he said, his voice carrying that unusual mix of tiredness and regret. "Developers showed new plans for the building to the owner, and he liked it. They're kicking everybody out."
"Are you serious? Ain't nothing we can do?" I asked.
"Nothing I'm afraid. You’ve got until January to clear out."
After that call, I needed to clear my head. I walked into Soho Bar and ordered a Pumpkin Spice Mule—my usual. As I sipped, I sensed someone coming up behind me. When I turned, a stunning brunette stood there, smiling at me.
"Deep in thought?" she asked.
"How could you tell?" I said—still haunted by the landlord's text.
"You don’t smile much tonight," she teased. "By the way, I’m Nicole. she said extending her hand, "I want to introduce you to my friend. Here she is."
A tall, Arabian-Julia Roberts-looking woman in a red dress appeared, flashing double the smiles, double the gaze, and doubling my problems. Later that night, she'd confess being a fan of Quentin Tarantino and excited by the Christmas lights.
"It's gonna be a rough Christmas," I thought.
Nicky and Julia weren’t escorts—just young execs trying to live out their best Sex and the City fantasy.
This city makes everybody wear a mask.
At the very last frame of his 9-ball game, the cat who had the date at the top of the Empire State is the one who got hustled..like a fool. - Love Jones
I like admiring beautiful women, seeing their heads tilt slightly when I tell them I’m a painter. But I always keep my distance. Let them get too close, and it's game over. Trouble like that doesn't knock—it kicks down the door and ruins everything.
If your phone doesn't ring the next day/week, don't bother. It was nothing Romeo, just casual drinks and conversations.
That's the way it goes in the city.
The City's Belly
They say New York never sleeps. It's a myth: the body sleeps, the hustle spirit doesn't.
Past midnight, it was time for me to wrap it up, finish my drink, and get out of there. It was fun, but the reality was brutal. I’ve got commissions waiting and deadlines breathing down my neck. My back was against the wall.
On my way back to the subway, I heard the melody of a saxophone drifting through the station. Penn Station is where you find talent in New York: puppeteers, drummers, dancers, keyboard players—you name it. I had a thing for the sax, so I pulled a few dollars from my pocket and slipped them into the man's case.
The hustle—it’s relentless, always there. It speeds up and crashes down, just like the rain in this city.
The cold doesn’t care about your puff jacket; it seeps in, reminding everyone to double down and keep chasing the dollars.
John Lennon Blessings
One of my patrons knew I was in the city and invited me for a walk through Times Square. We walked for two hours. He shared stories of his gambling days in China—the Macao casinos—adventures that seemed a world away from my current situation.
We arrived at The Dakota building, where John Lennon was shot. We paused, as if in silent prayer, then made our way to Strawberry Fields in Central Park, where John Lennon's spirit roams. I’ve never been a hardcore Beatles fan, but I've always loved George Harrison—his spirituality, his music, and his flair with the Rickenbacker and other iconic guitars. He’s my favorite.
“I need a blues painting from you, LT. There's this musician I’m friends with—Carl Weathersby. You know him?” he asked, breaking the moment of reflection.
I didn’t know Carl, but I promised to do my research.
“Look him up,” he said. “I want the painting to be big. Let me know the value—I’ve got to bounce. Let’s catch up soon.”
Weeks later, luck struck while I was in Montclair—an expensive city in New Jersey. My money was running thin, and I felt the weight of it all. I puzzled, weighing my options, feeling the pressure. Then my phone buzzed with a text message: "Hey! So how much for the Weathersby?"
New Jersey is huge. I must have stayed in at least four different Airbnbs, each more temporary than the last.
He paid me well—in full. Five figures. Enough to lift the weight of rent off my shoulders: I would find a month-to-month stay near Broad Street.
Enough to finally get my studio.
My Dream Studio
The art studio was in Long Island City, Hunters Point, just a slingshot across the East River.
Court Square has a train platform that shakes whenever a train approaches, making you feel like you'll die there. The entire structure sways, and for a split second, you wonder if this will be the day something gives way.
When I lacked inspiration, I’d walk to the MET Museum, contemplating great art.
One of my favorites was an artwork depicting Dante’s Inferno.Dark and captivating—pure hell. I could stand there, staring at it for an hour, taking it in. Sometimes, it’s the beauty of despair that pulls you out of your own.
“I was a hustler amongst angels and monsters.” That summed up New York for me—fighting to survive.
Blue Notes Jazz & Hip-Hop
The lights shifted, and suddenly, I was at the Blue Note jazz club—deep blues and reds washing over the room, electrifying the air.
The stage was lit, and DJ Premier was spinning turntables, performing with Stanley Clarke on the upright bass.
Another patron invited me, someone who saw the hustle and wanted me to catch a break. Hip-hop and jazz fusion, when old school meets the mastery of bass.
I met DJ Premier backstage, pulled my phone out and showed him a painting I made about him and Guru.
“Wow! How cool!” he said. “What’s your Instagram? I’ll follow you.”
Back On The Block
I worked hard in that studio. Projects were piling up, and the walls were covered with works in progress.
I’d make beats on my AKAI MPC—a drum groove and sampling machine, to relax and wait for the paintings to dry.
One day, a friend of mine—a singer—came by. I found an unfinished track, just a simple loop I had made. I played it for him, and he jumped to the roof.
“I want it! It’s mine!” he screamed.
He called me months later to tell me my production was on YouTube.
Living in Newark was tough. I liked New Jersey, but working in Manhattan made it feel so far away. An hour and a half each way, every single day, wore me down. The commute was horrible—long, cold mornings waiting for delayed trains. It made every day feel like a battle just to get to the studio.
Tired of the long hours, and the constant unpredictability of NJ Transit, I decided to move into the studio—cutting down on travel. It wasn't ideal, but at least it meant one less struggle.
An unfortunate event sealed the deal.
“Bedbugs? Lionel! She found bedbugs in her room,” my Nigerian landlord-turned-friend in Newark told me one day.
“Are you kidding me?” I said.
One of his guests called Airbnb and asked for a refund.
“Airbnb is shutting down the place,” he replied.
No bugs in my room, but I didn’t want to take any risks. It was time to close the Newark chapter and move permanently to Long Island City.
A practical move: I had a stable place to create—a shared studio with my cubicle. It was big enough to work on my art, with walls to hang my pieces.
The space was rough but functional...to a certain extent: no shower.
[TO BE CONTINUED ON MY PATREON]
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1moLionel, enjoyed the read. Oh, and thanks for the ride and taking me along. Few writers can do that. Blessings to you.
Music Lessons and Recording Sessions at Mountjoy Music Studio. Corner of Betts and Smith.
1moIf you don't go out and get what you want you'll miss out. Take a chance. Risk everything. You only live once. Go for it!